The sign on the outside of the building read: Morning Cravings, and to top it off, it was on the same street as Michaud’s gallery. Now that’s what you call a lucky break.
In a weird and wonderful way, it appeared the dual-coloured building with canary yellow siding and ash grey trim also once served as an old train depot. He recalled Pop mentioning a railway line that ran through the town and toward the docks. Could it have been right here? In this very spot?
“At the docks, cargo and passengers bound for Toronto would make their way on the steamers that crossed the lake three times a day. By the early 1900s, it was all electric streetcars,” he heard Pop saying as if it were only yesterday.
Today, the train depot had been carefully renovated into a sleek, modern coffee shop with a miniature wooden deck wrapping around the side of the building.
“Are you sure that I can’t tempt you?” the young female barista repeated. She had been trying to persuade him to try their hot apple cider for what felt like thirty-seconds too long. His wearied eyes were instead drawn to the Art Deco-inspired signage behind her. White block lettering written on chalkboard, orange flourishes divided the groups of drinks into sections. The sunburst design elements highlighted various add-ons to give your drink a splash of something extra.
“No, the Marble Roast is fine,” he told her. “One cream, one sugar, please.” According to the sign, the Marble Roast was their premiere offering, a unique blend of all three roasts into one. If that didn’t kick-start him, likely nothing would.
It was a quirky place, he’d give it that. Repurposed suitcases served as benches intermixed with Parisian-style café chairs and floor tile that aimed to cast a spell on you. The kind that if you stared at it too long you’d have the impression that you were drifting in an simulated maze of geometry or floating away into a Salvador Dali dreamland.
He could get used to a place like this. It had presence. An elegance to it.
He sat down at a small, circular white table underneath an Art Deco-inspired print of a brunette taking a photograph. Inside the camera lens, coffee brewed into a porcelain mug. The headline on the poster read, The Perfect Shot.
Cute.
Across the street was The Prince of Wales hotel, the horse carriages lined up out front, lying in wait for their next tour around town. The horses shook off the faint snowflakes while their handlers abided, perched up on the box seat, dressed immaculately in their black and white attire, top hats on their heads.
He sipped at his coffee appreciating the richness and fullness of its flavours, immersing himself in the smooth brew into a trance-like state.
“Get away from me!”
Shouting. A female voice. That much was clear.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she cried.
Patrick adjusted in his seat, craning his neck to inspect further. He couldn’t see them—a corner of the wall obstructed his view—but he could definitely hear them. What was going on?
“Stop it. You’re hurting me…”
“I know you did it! Why won’t you tell me the truth…”
A man’s voice now. Irate. Younger.
Patrick got up, deciding to see what all the fuss was about and moved around the corner, heading back toward the entrance. He noticed them straight away, arguing near the counter in front of a rattled female barista.
“Folks, please, this is a family place,” a male barista told the arguing couple, joining from a back room. He spread his hands open, pleading to them. The female barista huddled behind him with panic in her eyes.
“You, witch. Just tell me,” the man said to the woman. He held her by both arms, gripping her viciously with an intensity in his eyes that said he wasn’t messing around. The man was about Patrick’s age, but with earrings in both ears and spiky, multi-coloured gelled hair.
Well, this is a first. No one told me that the Sex Pistols we’re back together.
“Uh, is there a problem here?” Patrick asked as he approached the group.
The man turned his head at Patrick, and said, “Just stay out of it, buddy.”
But Patrick pushed on, creeping closer, knowing that he had little choice in the matter. “I think you better let go of the lady. Right now.”
The man loosened his grip and she faltered, stumbling back onto a glass counter behind her with a thud. He turned his focus on Patrick, playing the card dealt to him, realizing that he wasn’t going to back down. He tilted his head to one side and sneered. “What’d I just say, man? Mind your business and go back to your fancy coffee. I bet you paid good money for that, don’t let it go to waste.”
Before Patrick could so much as get out a response, the woman lunged, grabbing one of those plastic dome lids that you use to cover pies and other desserts from the glass counter and sent it crashing over the man’s head. Or, at least Patrick had assumed it was plastic. As chance would have it, it was glass. Thundering, ear-splitting glass.
The dome made contact with the man’s head and shattered into large pieces, raining down all over him and onto the floor. The female barista jumped in place behind the counter while the male barista simply stood there, shocked and dumbfounded. The dome-throwing woman smiled, watching the man fall to the floor in a heap, blood beginning to seep from a wound on his head.
“You witch…” the man said, rising on unsteady legs and a trail of blood running down his face. “You’ll pay for that. I knew you were the one.”
“For the last time,” she wailed, tears in her eyes, “I didn’t do anything. You’ve got it all wrong. You’ve made some kind of mistake.”
The man straightened, his back to Patrick now, and balled a fist. “We’ll see about that.”
“That’s enough,” Patrick said, finally reaching them. He stepped over the glass shards on the floor and placed a firm grip on the man’s shoulder.
But the man whipped his body around, flinging Patrick’s hand aside, and came out swinging. A gut-wrenching blow to Patrick’s stomach sent him sprawling to the floor.
“Oh my God,” someone shouted.
Gasping for air and hunched over with both hands on the floor, Patrick’s eyes welled up and everything became a blur.
Voices. So many voices. Chairs scraped tile. Furniture toppled over. All the sounds jumbling and fusing together into a discombobulated mess that was too hard to make out.
By the time Patrick caught his breath and his vision came back to him, he only had enough time to see the man bolting out a side exit like a gazelle. “Son of a…”
“Call the police! Quick!”
The dome-throwing woman leaned over Patrick, gently touching his shoulder, and asked, “Are you okay?”
Play it cool. You just got beat. “I’ll be fine. Thanks.” He got to his feet, cocked his head from side to side, and stretched out his back. So much for rest and relaxation.
“Thanks for trying,” the woman said.
He shot her a look.
Trying?
“Don’t mention it,” he said, instantly regretting his choice of words. “What was that about?”
The woman folded her arms across her chest, averting her eyes, and frowned. “It was nothing. I’d rather wait for the police, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Lady, I just got knocked on my you-know-what for you. The least you could do is tell me that it was worth it and what it was for.”
“He’s right, Ms. Cervelli,” another voice said now. “You could show the man a little appreciation.”
That caught her off-guard. A hand rose to her chest. “What? Well, I…”
Patrick looked left as another customer approached from a nearby table. She had auburn-coloured hair tied back into a ponytail, and wore dark-rimmed glasses on her round face.
“Are you all right?” the new woman asked him. “That was some blow.”
“I’ll manage,” he said through gritted teeth, the pain subsiding into a dull ache. “Now, someone mind telling me what’s going on? Who was that?”
The same woman sighed and glanced over at the side exit into the alley. “I don’t know what led to the dispute, only she can answer that, but I think that was Trevor Hurst. He works down at the bank.”
Patrick shot a look back at the alley. “Wait, that was Trevor Hurst?”
“Yes, does that mean something to you?”
Patrick pursed his lips. “It does… What’s your name?”
Her eyes went wide, the question startling her. “Oh, I’m sorry. Where are my manners? I’m Charlotte Gardner. I work for Olivia Brashear at The Society of Arts & Culture.”
He spun back to the dome-throwing woman. A blonde with bright blue eyes. “And you?”
“My name is Sophia Cervelli. I’m—”
“Sophia?” he repeated, probably louder than he had intended.
“That’s right.”
He’d heard that name before, but where? Then it came to him.
“You’re an artist, right?”
Her mood brightened somewhat and she smiled. “Yes. I have a gallery just up the road from here. I make a habit of coming here first thing in the morning before I—”
“Both of you must know Marc Wagner then?”
They exchanged glances and nodded. Sophia spoke first. “I… yes. We knew him. I’m sorry, and you are?”
“I’m—” Patrick began before being spoken over.
“What’s this I hear about an altercation?”
They turned their heads as one to find Detective Horace MacKay standing behind them in the doorway. He stormed into the coffee shop, his footsteps sounding like thunder cracks of lightning. Each step deeper than the last, the broken glass whirled and rippled on the tile floor.
He placed his hands on his hips. “What’s so gosh darn important that I need to have my day interrupted this early in the morning?” MacKay saw Patrick and his eyes appeared to burn up inside his head. “What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you had something to do with this?”
“Detective,” Patrick said, his head hung low, “I only tried to help.”
This wasn’t what he needed right now. Why were things always going from bad to worse?
MacKay moved closer and inspected the tile floor, taking note of the broken glass and droplets of blood. His nostrils twitched. “Help, huh? Why is there—”
“It’s true, Detective,” Sophia Cervelli offered.
“Ms. Cervelli,” MacKay said, turning towards her. “Did Mr. Sullivan here try to hurt you?”
Sophia’s forehead puckered. “What? No. It was—”
“It wasn’t him, Sir,” the female barista called from behind the counter. “It was another fella.”
MacKay fixated on Patrick, doubtful. “Is that right?”
“It’s true, Sir,” Charlotte Gardner told him. She pointed a finger toward the side exit. “He ran out that door and took off down the alley. But not before he and Sophia got into an argument at the counter here.”
“And the glass?”
“I hit him,” Sophia explained. “With one of the pie covers.”
MacKay nodded.
“This man here tried to help,” she continued, “but all it got him was a sucker-punch in the stomach.”
MacKay cracked a smile. “Is that right?”
“It’s all true, Detective,” Patrick told him. “The bad guy got away, I’m afraid. Someone by the name of Trevor Hurst. Know him, by any chance?”
MacKay thought on it, pacing the room while he surveyed the scene. “Hmm. Can’t say that I do. What’d he look like?”
“About my age,” Patrick told him. “Late twenties. Earrings. Like some kind of punk rocker reject.”
MacKay stopped in place and scoffed. “Doesn’t sound like anybody from Old Town that I’d know. Maybe an out-of-towner or a tourist. This fella speak English? We get a lot of foreigners in these parts.”
Patrick’s jaw tightened. “Of course he spoke English, MacKay. These two ladies just told me a second ago that they’ve seen him working around town.”
MacKay looked over at Sophia and Charlotte for confirmation.
“It’s true, Sir,” Charlotte offered. “Sorry, I mean, Detective. I don’t know him very well, but I’m pretty sure he works down at the bank.”
MacKay clapped his hands together. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” He then directed his attention to the two baristas, who had so far remained glued behind the counter. Too overwhelmed by the situation and paralyzed in fear. “Sorry about all the trouble, folks. You two, okay?”
“Yes, Sir,” they said in unison.
“We’re just a little shook up is all,” the female barista offered.
Patrick took a step toward the detective. “MacKay, shouldn’t you be… I don’t know, trying to find this guy? He can’t have gotten far. If you get a patrol car—”
“Mr. Sullivan,” MacKay said, addressing Patrick, “I’d love it if you didn’t try to tell me how to do my job every chance you got, thank you very much. I don’t tell you how to do your job—whatever it is—so I’ll expect the same courtesy from you.”
Patrick’s heart skipped a beat and frustration swiftly turned to anger. He pointed a finger at Sophia. “She was assaulted, MacKay. As was I. What if I wasn’t here to stop it? You think these kids would have been able to do anything about it? Or, what about Ms. Gardner here?”
“I’m not a kid,” one of the baristas chimed in.
They really were, though. They couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen. He didn’t remember seeing any other employees on shift, either.
MacKay turned up his nose. “Someone would have come, Mr. Sullivan.”
“In time?”
“Certainly.”
Patrick debated what to say next. Did he really want to dig himself into a bigger hole with the detective or did he want to try to do things the right way? Finally, after much deliberation, he came out with it.
“Where are the rest of the uniforms? Is this how you guys run this town? Just let it fend for itself? No wonder—”
“Mr. Sullivan,” MacKay said, his voice bristling, “I think you better leave so I can try and straighten this up. I’m sure these lovely ladies would rather not have their whole day ruined and you’re really trying my patience here.”
Patrick scanned their faces. “Leave? You can’t be serious? I still have to give my statement.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“What? Why not? Someone was just assaulted.”
“Mr. Sullivan…”
But, MacKay wasn’t budging. He still stood there, straight-faced.
“Fine,” Patrick said. “Whatever you say. Detective.”
He took one last look at Sophia and Charlotte and then made for the exit, forgetting all about his coffee and why he had come in the first place. He went outside, got to the corner, and tried to gather himself. If this was how MacKay wanted to play it—if this was how he was going to attempt to maintain order in Old Town—then so be it. It was time to let the chips fall where they may.
And for the first time since his arrival, he was beginning to think it was a huge mistake coming here. Who was he kidding? These people were all asking for trouble, weren’t they?
Let them deal with it. He’d dealt with enough already.
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